


still, like dust, i'll rise

by meridianline



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Same old same old, Tears, fingers crossed for weird resolution lol, i'm just so sad, typical skam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridianline/pseuds/meridianline
Summary: Sana, after she sees Yousef and Noora...(super short drabble for cathartic purposes)





	still, like dust, i'll rise

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my sweet sugar plums. I knew something bad was going to happen, like what we saw with Yousef and Noora. But what really killed me was her overhearing all that nasty crap from the Pepsi Max ladies. Hit close to the bone ya know?
> 
> I'm 100% confident this will be resolved because... this is Skam lol... but either way, I'm so sad and this is my super short drabble to process that :)

She stands there. Staring. There’s a faint buzzing in her ears, people swarm around her but everything has fallen away from her world except Noora, and Yousef, and Noora and Yousef.

It’s like her chest has been split open, and her heart wrenched from her chest. She can’t breathe. She can’t think.

A sharp elbow hits her side as someone jostles past and the world comes back to her in sharp technicolour. Karaoke still blaring out from a speaker beside her, the smashing of a glass someone’s dropped. The party whirls around her, suddenly too bright, too loud.

She has to leave. Right. Now.

She pushes her way past people, grappling with bodies, not seeing or caring about the looks that follow, not caring about who’d seen her go. Finally, the crowds give way and she’s out.

The sun is still shining and she blinks as the light hits. There are a few groups lingering outside. Someone laughs, it’s in her direction. There’s muttering. Are they talking about her? She has no idea, she has no grip on what is going on at all. She feels sick.

Just get home, she thinks, forcing her legs to move, just get home without breaking, you can do that. You can do anything.

She stumbles through the streets, and dusk begins to fall. The urgency gives way to panic and soon she’s sprinting along the pavement, the cool evening wind whipping at her face.

Finally, she reaches her building. Up the stairs, in the door, across the hallway, into her room.

And breathe…

Her room is just as she left it. There’s her homework half done on her desk. The ten outfits she’d tried on for this evening uncharacteristically strewn on her floor. She knows if she opens her laptop, her browser will be on _his_ Facebook profile. She’d been debating whether to re-add him before or after the party.

The sting of humiliation hits again and this time there is no one else there to witness her break. Hot tears fill her eyes, spilling on her cheeks. Her throat aches with the effort of not sobbing.

After everything, she’d tried so hard. She’d tried to be a good friend, she’d tried to do the best for the stupid fucking russebuss - reading up on concepts, aligning with Pepsi Max, judging none of them. It wasn’t enough, she realised.

No matter what she did, it would never stop them being racist, Islamophobic arseholes and it would never stop her from being excluded. It would never stop misunderstanding and hate and confusion and ignorance. How dare they call her faith into question. How dare they! Her palms begin to sting as her nails dig in.

And Yousef. She’d questioned everything because of him. How fucking naive was she? Her mamma had tried to tell her, but she hadn’t listened and now here she was, with a broken heart and a head full of silly, immature dreams.

What did she think was going to happen? He would propose, and they’d get married and live happily ever after? She had never been this stupid before.

Her phone suddenly begins to buzz, the familiar call to the prayer echoing from her pocket. The ache in her chest eases, just a fraction. Her breaths slow.

This is what she knows, and this is what matters most. When all is chaos and when her heart and head are in turmoil, she can always count on her faith. She can count on Islam.

Grabbing a wet wipe from her desk, she smooths the cool material over her face, wiping it clean of make up and tears and begins to ready herself for prayer. As she does, her phone buzzes again: a Facebook message from Noora, then a text from Elias, and another from Chris.

Calmly, without thinking, she presses the power button until the screen goes black and the phone is silenced. She will pray, and she will process. She will remember what is important. And come Monday, she will rise.

 

_You may write me down in history_

_With your bitter, twisted lies,_

_You may trod me in the very dirt_

_But still, like dust, I'll rise._

  
  
  
  



End file.
